


Aftermath

by dalula



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, Gen, Gore, M/M, Mouth Sewn Shut, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Pre-Accident Mituna Captor, Tongue Severing, yknow THE kurloz mouth thing...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:59:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24571930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalula/pseuds/dalula
Summary: You hear panicked cries, strangely faint for how close the figure is. "What did you do, Kurloz? What the fuck did you do?" The voice is upset but you can't figure out why; you're cleansed. They should be happy. You're happy.
Relationships: Mituna Captor/Kurloz Makara
Comments: 6
Kudos: 57





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> prompt - “Get away from me!”

You bite down on your tongue and let the blood flood your mouth. The pain stops you from slicing all the way through, you're forced to stop or risk passing out too soon. It stings, nausea threatening to bring up your last meal. You feel faint from the sickly mix of adrenaline, fear, and ache. Opening your maw, you blearily examine the damage inflicted. Your talk stub hangs on with strands of thin, stringy flesh, the punctures caused by your teeth leaving gruesome, gaping holes staring back at you. Purple floods down your chin, your neck, until it reaches your chest, soaking into the black fabric of your shirt. Your lungs shudder and burn as your brain tries to comprehend what you've done, a panicked, animalistic instinct in your gut telling you to _stop it you're hurt you need to run._ You ignore it.

This is what needs to be done. This was foretold. This is what you deserve.

The needle and thread at your side call to you, humming its sombre reminder of what needs to be done. Penance, correction, justice.

A final, decisive slam of your jaws severs your tongue. It drops unceremoniously into the sink, wet and glossy with gore and saliva. You watch it, half expecting it to flop around like a dying fish would, gasping and writhing. Breathless, like you, unable to breathe past the liquid in your throat, choking and heaving on purple, so much purple. It's holy, isn’t it? Sacred and important. It's drowning you now, grasping and suffocating and dragging you down. The you in the mirror is screaming, gagging on the blood, tears trailing down his face. Inside, the world is silent and blurred at the edges, like you're in a dream. The pain throbbing through you feels distant, far away and someone else's, gathering and ebbing in time with your breaths.

Your hands shake when they slide the thread through the needle, and even more so when they puncture the skin around your lips. An embedded urge tells you that each hole must be even, an equal length apart, that you won't get another chance at this. No matter how much you want to stop, to let the call of sleep overtake you, you can't. It has to be done and it has to be perfect. It won't be long before Mituna finds you, vertiginous and gory, and he won’t let you finish if he catches you. He doesn’t understand why you need to do this.

The knot you tie is shoddy at best but you’re finding it hard to see through the tears in your eyes, fingers slipping on the soaked strands as you race to finish.

Done, it’s done.

The floor probably hurts your knees as you land on them but you can’t feel it over the burn from your mouth. Your eyes are already closing, your body falling back and allowing you the brief peacefulness of rest. Coldness from the floor souses your skin, seeping into your bones. There are loud, hurried sounds coming from a different room, and then the slide of a door opening. You would open your eyes to see who it is but you’re so tired, your eyelids feel so heavy.

You hear panicked cries, strangely faint for how close the figure is. "What did you do, Kurloz? What the fuck did you do?" The voice is upset but you can't figure out why; you're cleansed. They should be happy. You're happy.

Warm. Warm hands on your cheeks, not touching your irritated lips but stroking close by. An anxious, electric hum buzzes around you like bees as phantom fists gather objects from places out of your reach. A soft, damp towel to stroke your neck, cleaning the purple off of it. Off of your face too, but the warm hands are too scared of aggravating your wound to wipe your mouth. You can feel their worry like it's part of their static fizz, engulfing you. You whine weakly, you want them to stop worrying. Everything is wonderful, rainbow-tinted miracles, they should be allowed to see the colours too.

"Porrim's coming, okay? Hang in there," the warmth tells you. It's a struggle to remember who Porrim is and why it's important that they arrive. "You fucking idiot, what were you thinking?"

The voice is angry but not at you. At itself. Silly voice, they can't see the puzzle pieces fitting into place.

You really want more of the warmth, you want its arms to wrap around you and keep you safe, to kiss your cheeks and shoosh you. The paps are nice, though distracted and irregular, but you want more. You want to curl inside them so they'll never leave you.

Another whimper sounds from your throat involuntarily and they curve over you, close enough to feel their breath fan over your face, blocking the glare of the ceiling lights from penetrating your eyelids.

"I got you," they murmur, bumping their nose against yours. "You better watch out. After you're fixed up we're gonna have the deepest, most soul revealing, emotionally vulnerable pile you've ever had. If your glance nuggets aren't puking soppy, pale tears by the end of it I'll consider myself a failure as a moirail."

They're sniffling, their voice trembling as they speak. They hold you to them like you're a broken bird, tiny, delicate bones at risk of shattering.

"I thought you were meant to be the stable one, man." Something wet drops onto you. "Isn’t communication, like, pale one-oh-one? You can't just _do_ shit like this. Fuck you."

Despite their words, you can feel their love, their ache.

His ache. Mituna. Your Tuna.

You try to say his name but the streaks of pain that erupt from your mouth stop anything but a muffled _mhh_ from escaping.

"Shh. Shoosh," he says. "Dumbass."

He places a kiss on your forehead, stroking away your sweaty hair. His fingers glance over the base of your horns but the sensation is so much duller than normal, like when the chill of your empty hive buries itself in your bones and makes your fingertips numb.

More footsteps approach, graceful and light.

"Pale for you." Mituna whispers before leaning away.

The new arrival kneels close to you and Mituna, their knees bumping your side as they shuffle through loud and clunky items. _Get away from me,_ you think. You want to be alone with your palemate, to smother yourself in his heat and purr until your voice box runs out.

They're talking above you in hurried, anxious voices but you can't grasp what they're saying. You try to listen to the conversation but the words turn shapeless, blurring into an unintelligible rumble. _It's time to sleep,_ your body tells you, _you're ready now._

Mituna is holding your hand. The blackness finally pulls you under.

**Author's Note:**

> please just write something wholesome my friends cry in agony  
> no!!! i scream back


End file.
